Thursday, December 31, 2015

Knowing a writer is like hugging a pickpocket, someone once said.I grew rich in 2015.As a writer, I spend a lot of time watching people and thinking
about what they do and, of course, eavesdropping in restaurants. If you've read this blog before, you know about my field trips to the supermarket, where connections between people are always on sale.In 2015, I walked into a bar where my husband and I go for dinner now and then. A regular, about fifty and a dead ringer for Neil Young, squinted at me for several moments before he pointed at me with his glass. "I think I know you," he said. "You a townie?" I said, "Define townie." He slid a chair up, and in a half hour, we were arguing over which was the best Rolling Stones song ever. In 2015, I had a conversation with a man on a plane that started when he unplugged from his iPod, folded his arms, stared out the window for several minutes, then looked at me and said, "So what takes you to Cleveland?" Before the plane landed, I knew where he'd spent childhood summers, the siblings he was closest to, and the massive struggle each were facing as the first Christmas since his mother's recent and sudden death loomed. "We got together last night to decide who would make her favorite dishes," he said. "It was pretty rough."In 2015, I published two of the most honest essays I'm capable of. In one case, the piece
connected me to others on an emotional level that astounded me. It brought
multiple comments of appreciation and expressions of deep love. In another, I hit a nerve in readers who were not inspired, but eager
to be vicious. One took a swing and the rest piled on.Gentle essayist that I try to be, I was suddenly Piggy in Lord of the Flies.But I learned something I will
never forget. People, all people, will find and cluster around those who identify with their deepest feelings, the good, bad and ugly. They may be too blinded by their relief at belonging to know or care how they affect others. But if they can belong, they will
actually take part in killing Piggy.On the surface, we want to be like some, and try hard to be as different as possible from others. But when people are honest, and when they are asked with sincerity, and when they know their deepest feelings won't be held against them, it is stunning to realize that we crave commonality enough to find it in a conversation with a stranger.Connection is that
important.For some, happiness is elusive and for others, impossible. I believe however, that for most, happiness is within reach. But it's not free. It takes real
connection with another that is void of judgement, and heavy with truth and acceptance and
curiosity about what is in the heart and mind of someone else. It takes trust, something I believe people hold onto like their biggest, private secret.With that, I give you my unscientific, but honest impressions of how we get
along, how we don't, and how we should, in 2016.

1. We need to recognize when someone's reaching out to us and respond. We're more important to people than we realize.2. People are as loving as they feel loved. Judgmental, critical people show how little love exists in their own lives, and it goes the other way; loved, happier people are more open and accepting and
tend to forgive their own mistakes more easily.3. We should think
about our words and why we must say
them, but we should think hard about
how another will hear them, which may not be at all the way we intended.4. Solutions to other people's problems that seem obvious
to us may not be easy, or even possible for them to carry out. Rarely are we the experts on another's true life that we think we are.

5. If there's a right thing to do, and for some reason we won't, our rationale will not look the same way, years
from now. Even if it takes a long time, people should do the right thing. Even
if it's complicated. Even if it hurts.

6. Pessimists are generally
unhappy people, but they weren't born that way. It only takes a little
heartbreak for people to believe that bad things are inevitable and good things
are accidental. We should feel for them. We won't catch anything.

7. When we wrong someone
unintentionally, and we've said we're sorry, and tried to show that we really
are, and they still wish to hold it against us, it's time to realize they can't
forgive because they don't want to. Sometimes, apology only moves one of us closer
to the middle.

8. It is not loving someone to
tolerate who they are. Loving someone means wanting them to be nothing less
than their truest, real self and changing your ideas of them accordingly.

9. We should not share personal, private things about our kids, and we should never tell people what they make.

10. Some people who are stupid
about what to say, would die before they'd hurt you on purpose.

11. We speak in headlines too
often. We should have real points of view that mean something to us and let
other people think the way they must.

12. If others insist on seeing us
as we were, and not as we are, give them time.
You didn't change overnight.

THIS is a picture of Gus.

13. Those moments when you are
doing something and think you should be doing something else are your mind's
way of telling you it needs to play.

14. Don't lie to people who know
who you really are and love you. They'll
know you're doing it, and they won't say so.

15. And finally, after a year of
field trips to stores and banks and restaurants and doctor's offices, after
months of observing people – all people – who are most real when they don't
know someone is watching, I offer two essential rules to getting along with
others:

First, let people come out
before you go in. And second, don't block the intersection.

In 2016, be honest, be kind and may your happiest connections grow stronger.Love,

Saturday, December 12, 2015

I saw a couple the other day at the supermarket, where I attend life school.

They
were mid-late seventies, although she seemed younger. He wore a cap imprinted with USAF, and he was
in a wheelchair. She was dressed simply in a long skirt and sweater. Her hair, which she clipped in the back, was mostly gray
with a little blonde. While he wheeled the chair
along, she kept her fingers loosely closed around a handle.

They
traveled the aisles, stopping when she spotted an item that she wanted to show
him. They chatted about dinner.

"Oh,
that would be good with..."

"You
know, later this week we could have it with..."

"Maybe
you could make that recipe
where..."

And
so on.

I'm assuming
they were long-married and that this routine was a regular one, spending time
at the store, engaged in planning a dinner they would go home and make
together.

They
were unaware of others unless she needed to wheel him out of someone's way.

They
talked about company they were expecting.

They
shared a story about someone they'd seen last week.

They
commented on the crowd today.

She
laughed when he made jokes. He nodded when she spoke, "Uh-huh,
that's true." She asked his opinion, "How about," or, "what
do you think of..."

I
imagined them in their youth. Maybe he was the more outgoing, while she was possibly the quiet one. Maybe he hung around the kitchen while she
made dinner, telling stories of his day, and maybe she shared funny moments
with their kids. Maybe they engaged in the self-congratulatory boasting that we
all do in our own intimate company, when we agree that we are probably the most
blessed people on the planet for all we have, all we've done together, and
maybe, all we've survived.

I know that life,
age, struggle, can weigh people down until it becomes something to deal with,
like the days themselves. Conversations,
expressions of our minds and hearts, can stall for the effort of launching
them. Smiles can creep away, and faces can freeze in a state of half-interest and
half-disappointment. I see it all the
time, and so do you.

But
if the USAF man struggled to live in and out of that wheelchair, he wasn't
bitter in his companion's company. If his
companion was tired, she was gentle, still, in his. One could see, that each looked forward to whatever ritual was in the plans for later, if only the preparation and sharing of dinner. It's what we all need, a later.In
line, checking out, she looked around at the day's crowd. The tender expression
changed to a watchful one, a bit guarded, slightly puzzled. But when her companion spoke to her, back it
came, the other face, lines relaxed, eyes soft, her smile like a pretty day.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

I'm pretty sure Agent Raselle does not work here, where they have 800 numbers.

Last night, I came home to a missed call and this
message on my phone:

“This is the Internal Revenue Service calling with a final notification
that a lawsuit has been filed against you. Call this number to confirm that you
have received this message.”

My problem isn't that I sometimes answer the phone
to a number that's suspicious. Everyone does that. My problem is that if I'm unprepared, I can't
play with them, and that is disappointing.

But this message came with a number. So, I called back and sure
enough, the person answered, "Internal Revenue Service."

"Is this really the IRS?" I asked.

"Yes, that's correct."

"I understand I'm being sued by you."

"What is your name?"

"What is your name?"

"Raselle," he said, (I'm guessing at the
spelling)."What is your name?"

"Hold on. You're really with the IRS, right?"

"That is correct. What is your name?"

"Wait, why are you calling me from a cell phone,
Raselle? I think the IRS has an 800
number."

"You were called to settle a lawsuit."

"I don't recall being notified about a lawsuit.
And yet it said final notification. Have you already called me from your cell
phone?"

"I need to verify information, before I can
give you details about the lawsuit."

"And you're the IRS person to talk to, right?
You're not going to just put me on hold?"

"That is correct."

"Okay, go ahead."

"Is this (address) correct for you?"

"No, that's not correct."

"What is your address and zip code?"

"I can't give you that, Raselle."

"This is a serious matter and you have been
contacted already."

"No I haven't."

"Yes you were."

"No I haven't."

"Yes you were. You received two letters."

"No I didn't."

"Yes you did."

"No I didn't."

"Well, that's your problem."

"Okay,Raselle. I don't think the IRS speaks to
people that way."

A call beeped
in and I held the phone out. It was my son.

"Raselle, I have to go."

"You will not be notified again."

"Well, that's also my problem."

I hung up on him, and talked to my son about his
ugly-sweater party.

I know I shouldn't have even returned the call. My
number was obviously a tick on the scammer wheel of fortune and calling back is
how victims set themselves up for continued harassment.

So, nobody try that at home.

But I couldn't help myself. Scammers (not to
be confused with telemarketers who don't
prey on the elderly), are like mosquitoes and black flies. They are aggressive, they are rude, they are
relentless. They'll come at you even if you've been told how to protect yourself and eventually, you'll answer the phone without checking the number and they'll scare you into listening to them.

Or, if agent Raselle has his way, you'll see the unfamiliar number and return the call anyway because it could be a child or friend or an emergency. And then, agent Raselle will offer you a way out of the lawsuit being filed against you in exchange for your debit card number, which agent Raselle knows, some people will offer to avoid so much as a dirty look from the Internal Revenue Service.

If that call does come, hang up and do what they suggest you do over at the real IRS, where they have 800 numbers:

If you get a phone call from
someone claiming to be from the IRS and asking for money, here’s what you
should do:

If you know you don’t owe taxes or
have no reason to believe that you do, report the incident to the Treasury
Inspector General for Tax Administration (TIGTA) at 1.800.366.4484 or at www.tigta.gov

You can file a complaint using the FTC
Complaint Assistant; choose "Other” and then “Imposter Scams.” If the complaint
involves someone impersonating the IRS, include the words “IRS Telephone Scam”
in the notes.June, 2015

Or, if you get that call, and you're in need of amusement, you can let your fake agent know that before you answer any of their questions, you'd like them to answer a
few of yours.

Thursday, November 19, 2015

About ten years ago, when our daughter Courtney was attending the Aspen
Music Festival, I flew out to see her perform. I met Jordan Allen, a
cellist Courtney had met in college. I am generally shy, it takes time for me to engage on deep personal levels
with people I don't know well. But Jordan liked that I was a writer. His enthusiasm to get acquainted and trade artist stories was uncontainable. It
took fewer than five minutes to hear about things which might have taken someone else years and possibly as many drinks to disclose. I loved this open, guileless young man immediately.

After Aspen ended, Jordan, who called me Movie Mommy, shared regular updates over the phone - the men in his life he hoped would make him happy, and the ones who would not.Once, during a bleak stretch, Jordan asked me how anyone could
ever know if real love, marriage and children were even in the cards for them. That conversation, more than any other, stayed with me. The only answer I could offer, as unhelpful as it was true, was time.

Jordan joined the Madison Symphony Orchestra and got his life gig underway. His updates, less frequent but
longer, kept me up to speed for a while.

A year passed, and then two, when I saw on Facebook that
Jordan had become engaged.

I had no words that could convey my joy for him. And yet, later that week, didn't Jordan email me and ask me to
write the reading for his wedding? Yes, he did.

And, so, with Jordan's permission, I'm posting my little contribution to the celebration of hard-earned love, which, yes, it turns out, is in those cards.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Moments after students arrive on college campuses everywhere, parents begin receiving alerts in their email inboxes that go like this:"Nothing fights homesickness the way a thoughtful care package like THIS will from Mom and Dad." Or, "Don't let your college student be the only one who doesn't receive one of THESE fabulous care packages." Or, "Dial down the stress in your college student's day with one of THESE thoughtful care packages."Thoughtful care packages are pictured ranging from the modest (cocoa packets and granola bars) to the extravagant: organic brain-boosters, gluten-free fruit and nut assortments,travel mugs, popcorn, energy bars, clothing, K-cups, trail mix, etc.There is always an 800 number. There is always a deadline. There is always an extended deadline.And what do you mean, your college student doesn't have a Keurig?Get him one.For God's sake. It's part of being a grown up to be thoughtful. It's part of being a parent to twitch with the feeling that every parent is caring more thoughtfully for their faraway student than you are.In related news, the
other day, I received a greeting card from my friend, Jane. On the front, it said: "Don't grow up, it's
a trap."I like this message so
much, I took everything off the refrigerator door and placed it there by itself.

In this spirit,
and because Halloween was approaching, and because I miss our grown-up children
most in the holiday months, I hung up my
writing for a day last week and spent most of it assembling a gift box for
our college person and his housemates.

They're veterans, all seniors. They aren't especially homesick, they aren't inordinately stressed. They're just young guys who have a growing awareness of the real world that will come with the spring, and a 24/7 appetite for fun - still. There was nothing grown-up about this box; the only healthy thing I sent was a surprise.

I lined it with a vinyl Halloween tablecloth
covered with ghosts, skeletons and the word "boo." Inside I placed
three dozen just-baked cookies, glow-in-the-dark wands with skeleton heads,
several plastic spiders, and a gigantic bag of mini candy bars.

Then I went to
Dunkin Donuts and bought four gift cards. Then I went to a card store and
bought the most juvenile Halloween cards I could find, with pictures of cats,
and pumpkins and witches on the outside and phrases like "Have a
frightfully Happy Halloween" on the inside. I slipped a gift card into
each one and taped a plastic spider to the outside envelope. I tucked these in
last.

I brought it to the
UPS store and filled out an address label.

"So,
contents?" asked the clerk, who has sent things from me to this address before.

"Halloween
items," I said.

"So, like
candy and stuff?"

"Exactly. And
some toys, too."

"That's
awesome," she smiled.

I sent it off and drove
home picturing these twenty-something guys as they unwrapped the box, laughed at the spider
cards, ate the cookies and peeked at their surprise coffee cards.

"This. Is. Awesome," someone would say.

But, I'm pretty sure my experience was Way.
More. Awesome. And, I'm pretty sure I will find new ways to grow down and find other grown up people to take with me.

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

It's worth mentioning that if my sweet, loyal, writer-cat Gus can almost put me in the hospital,
so can yours, whether
he helps you write or not.As most cat-owners know, but maybe, like me, choose to ignore, cats are
hunters by nature. They can be the most playful beings around. They can be
polite. If they feel like it, they can be trained to fetch, or come when you
call them. And, if you don't want your bare legs ambushed by playful cats who
are hunters by nature, they can be taught to go up or downstairs ahead of you.

"Throw me a post-it toy."

Gus and I have an understanding. When I'm writing, his job is to nap on
a soft blanket near my laptop under a little heat lamp that I set up. When he's
bored, my job is to stop writing and make him a post-it toy, or a fort.

I also know if I am in a conversation and gesturing, Gus considers this
both an invitation to play andan opportunity to hunt. And this is
where Gus begins to confuse himself with a cat 35 times his size, who does
not have fresh bowls of kibble every morning, but is in danger of starving to
death if he can't execute the cunning and stealth to bag his hand-prey.

And this is when Gus, like a soft little shark, will drift to where he
can track hand-prey, his focus silent and serious, his dilated predator eyes on the prize until I
lean forward and say, "Stop it,
Gus. Go to your fort."

"How did you get in here?"

He's the best.

Last week, while my husband and I sat chatting in our living room, Gus appeared. I motioned him to the couch next to me where he flopped and began to bat at my hand playfully.

And then he wrapped himself around my wrist and
bit me.

"Hey!" I yelled, surprised. But now, Gus was crouched with
his ears back, as if he'd taken his shot and now, it was my turn to be prey
again. Instead, I dipped my fingers into my water glass and sprinkled him,
saying "No! NO!"Horrified, he fled the scene. Below the piano he crouched, staring at
me, a hundred questions in his still-dilated, predator eyes.

This was on a Thursday. On Friday, a little area around the bite was red,
but eh, I thought, he's a house cat. I worked at my desk
and barely noticed it.

The next day I was to fly and visit family
overnight in Maryland. I woke many times that night, as I do before I fly, and also because it felt like I was wearing several rubber bands around my
wrist.

By the time I was at my gate, my entire wrist was swollen. He's a house cat, I
thought. How dirty can his mouth be? With
a half hour or so to kill, I looked up "Infected cat bites" on my
phone.And
discovered the following:

From
Mayo Clinic: "...according to a new study by researchers at the Mayo
Clinic, almost a third of the people who sought treatment for a cat bite had to be hospitalized. And of the patients who were
hospitalized, two-thirds ended up needing surgery to flush out the bacteria and
remove infected tissue."

Surgery?I looked at my wrist.

"Yes. They're talking about me," it said.

From
WebMD: "In some cases, a person who
has been bitten by an animal may need a tetanus or rabies shot, antibiotics to
prevent infection, X-rays, or immediate treatment at a hospital. Get medical
attention if:

The
bite is from a cat.

There
are signs of infection.

You
haven't had a tetanus shot for more than 10 years or you're not sure when your
last tetanus shot was.

I was
sure my last tetanus shot was in third grade, after I picked up a chipmunk on a field trip.

I
pulled my sleeve down.

I
pulled my sleeve up.

I
stared at my wrist.

Sleeve
down.

Sleeve up.

On the
plane, spooked and sure things were becoming worse by the moment, I thought
over my choices: Disrupt the entire family get-together with a trip to the ER
which would take several hours and possibly end with a four-day hospital stay.
Or, get hold of myself. Stop looking at my wrist, stop obsessing and wait until
the next day. Visit a walk-in urgent care facility on the way home. What's twenty-four more hours?

Problem
solved.

Two
hours later, I approached my host who happens to be a medical person and said,
"Ha ha, interesting thing happened, I got this bite the other day from my
cat who was just playing and—"

"Let
me see it," interrupted my host.

He took
a look, announced to the others that we would be going to the emergency room
and told me that no, I didn't have to bring my bag. He'd come back for it.

At the
ER, I told the triage person I had an infected cat bite and was placed in an
exam room almost as quickly as I would have been after saying, "Well,
first I had these chest pains..."

The
doctor looked at it. "Oh yeah,
that's infected," he said and calmly drew a large circle around the area.

One
tetanus shot and a prescription for oral antibiotics later, I was told that I
was not only "borderline" for admission, but still a candidate
depending on what happened on either side of that circle.

It is a
week later, the site is completely healed.
A more docile Gus is next to my hand, battling his hunter instincts as well as his memories I'm sure, of
that humiliating water treatment. He looks as likely to attack me as he
is to go down the hall and draw himself a bath.

Sunday, October 4, 2015

If I ever look at a struggling youngmother like this, I hope someonewill tell me to change my face immediately

At the supermarket recently, I watched a silent interaction between two women. They were worlds apart age-wise; one was a seventy-something professional who looked formidable, the other was a twenty-something mother who looked like a good night's sleep would
probably change her life.

I'd seen Mom already, moving around the store ahead of me, all business,
cart full, kids looking like, if they were phones, they would be down to one bar. Dressed in a skirt and heels, I'm supposing she was employed outside the home as SAHM's only dress like that on TVLand.

The kids were whiney-crying until Mom had unloaded nearly half her cart
and then, as though someone had said, "Okay, now!"
the four-year-old girl lost it and the younger brother sympathy-lost it. The girl
waved a bag of Doritos around which the mother refused to open while she waited
to pay for the groceries.

I know this tactic. IF you
keep it together and let me get out of here, THEN I'll open your
toy/snack/drink in the car.

And so, Mom wasn't budging. The girl's very loud crying only intensified, her face turned tomato-red, tears
traveled down her cheeks and her glazed over eyes were half-closed with fatigue.

"I want the bag...Mommeeeeeee...(gaspy sob)

"I WANT the bag...(hiccups)

"I WANT THE BAAAAAAG MOMMEEEEE!!!"

And so on.

At first, I thought, it's four-thirty in the afternoon. It's the witching hour. It's time to pay the Doritos bill. Just give her the bag.

But I know too well that teaching children to anticipate
and then cope with stressful situations is a long work in progress. Very often there are special rewards attached to specific goals. There are endless just-outs and next-times. How unfair to
both parent and child if all that training must be put to the side, in the best place
to practice it, only because people
are judging you so harshly you can almost hear their thoughts.

So I made funny faces at the girl, waved "hi" to distract her
and tried to make eye contact with Mom to speak for everyone in the store and
let her know we understood. But Mom, wasn't
having it. Every muscle in her face was tense. Her eyes were fixed on the
cashier.

The older woman, clearly not one of the everyones, wasn't having
it either. Face twisted into a scowl, she sighed, fidgeted, and kept her folded
arms across her chest. Just loudly
enough for Mom to hear, she hissed the word "chaos," and stared at
her. Then she glared at the crying girl, lips pressed together in a straight
line, eyes narrow.

At once, she looked at me and shook her head. I gave her a look to let her
know I was on the other team.

Mom finished checking out and wheeled her chaos away.

The older woman rolled up to the register and said to the cashier, "Disgusting, ab-so-lute-ly disgusting. That we have to be exposed to this
nonsense! This foolishness. This is why kids shouldn't be allowed in places
like this," she said, as though she were not buying hamburger and paper towels but being
robbed of an exquisite dining experience in an expensive restaurant.

"If I'd ever acted like
that," she said to the cashier, "I would have done it only once."

"Uh-huh. Do you want the meat separated from the paper towels?" asked the cashier, which made me like him very much.

I made it to the parking lot in time to catch the mother as she lifted
bags into the back of the car. The little girl sat in a car seat eating her
Doritos. Her little brother was quiet and busy with a toy.

"Excuse me," I said.When she looked at me, I could see that she was younger than I'd guessed. The deep stress
lines across her forehead looked like she'd borrowed them from someone older.

"You know what?" I said. "You did a good job in there. I know how
hard that was."

Her face relaxed. She looked like she'd cry. "I'm trying."

I've changed my own judge-y ways, but I know when I was a younger parent with a strong drive to raise conscientious kids, I would have been (privately) asshat-y had the mother handed the chaotic girl her Doritos. And, while in places "like this" I have only sympathy for the struggling parent, in high end restaurants where I've spent a lot of money to be free of screaming, nap-starved children, I've been judge-y indeed.

But in line that day, I remembered myself as I once was, and got a good look at who people become when they lose the ability to remember, who can't soften in their acceptance of others while they are hardening toward them.

So today, I'll have a little patience with inflexible people and
realize they might be struggling to find control in those intractable ways. They may be tackling much bigger issues than I am. They may be facing a trip to the store later with a tired toddler, and the kind of judgement that is so weighty, it makes it risky to even make eye contact with a stranger who's just trying to be nice to you.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

With effort, with effort, I will not buy this for Gus.But I may need to buy an extra-small dog.

Yes, I am re-posting this because it made people happy and because I'm very, very busy this week trying to flirt with the New York Times again. But this week is the last time, I promise.Here is an extra-small story that you'll like. Occasionally, I go to Petco-where-the-pets-go for
the food that Gus, my writer-cat likes as well as filters for his fountain which he
doesn't like as much as the faucet.

Usually I pick up a toy or two because I like to think he will be checking for this when I come home. Actually, I know that's
not really true, which is why I didn't buy him a Christmas cape in December.

With effort. With effort, I
didn't.

At Petco, people are allowed
to bring their dogs on leashes because, recall, Petco is where the pets go.

The dogs are usually well
behaved, some are better behaved than the owners who don't pick up their
excited dog's doodies left in the path of cat owners like me. But I ignore this
because it's not Petco, where the people go.

The other day, a clutch of
people stood with their leashed and sniffing dogs and chatted about God
knows what, because I couldn't eavesdrop from the register.

But nearby, closer to where I
stood, a man the size of a shed crouched on the floor before a display of glittery,
bejeweled collars for "extra-small dogs." He frowned, chin in hand, picked
up one collar after another, turned it over, tugged at it for give, put it back. It took a while (I let a couple of people go ahead of me), but finally,
he chose a bracelet-sized, black velvet collar with pink sequins.

With effort, he rose and headed
to the register, still looking over his pick. He probably imagined his extra-small dog being excited about the purchase. Maybe he was recalling the dog's reaction to his or her extra-small Christmas cape.

Even at Petco, where the pets
go, people do little things worth mentioning. That one made my day.Originally posted 2/13/15

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Backstory: In 2012, our nest didn't empty but tipped over with the departure of our last two at once. It was a lot of things, thrilling and disorienting, depressing and joyous to think of our house, empty.

Drew, ready to go:

Honest people said, "It's scary, to be alone again.""Pffft," I said. I was all about the glass half-full dammit, all about the positive changes we'd make. I reeled in the things we were, and folded them into the things we'd be. I understand now, that I didn't know what I was talking about three years ago.I understand now, that those honest people were right. I understand now, that so was I.2012Two
things happened this week that made me need to sit down. Sam turned eighteen, and Drew, only home from college until he found a job, found a job and moved out.

So, first, I am now the mother of adult
children. In those cheery, spontaneous conversations I start with strangers in line at the store, I
can finally offer that, "My children are grown now, but when my son was that
age...( here, I'll point to the toddler who is pulling candy bars off the
display)... he used to slap me in the face when I made him sit in the cart."

Second,
the last of the fledglings have flown. Nobody will live here again except for my
husband and me. Things will change.

We'll use the space
in the house differently - new office for him, new work out place for me. The laundry room, free of overflow clothes will be spacious enough for me to turn around without moving the ironing board.

During those stretches when he travels, I will spend more time on my novel. We will follow through on all that we hoped would happen when we became this - us again. We will plan things over the weekend breakfasts he prepares, a future of opening nights at Symphony Hall, visits to kids in the near or faraway places where they will be filling their own nests.

In our neater, quieter life, I expect I will notice how much has changed. I will think about how, after
twenty-seven years of everything that happened, and everything that didn't, of long distance marriage and independence and individual growth, we are still climbing the same front steps together. I will explain observations like this, and probably compare our relationship to weather, or pool toys or paths in the woods, and if he thinks I'm tedious, he will be too gracious to say so.

That will be us, now.

The fledglings four

While
our family was in the making, I hoped we'd always be close as people, not because we were related and once lived in the
same house, but by choice. I hoped, that
after they went in their own directions, our children would hunker down at home every now and then
to connect with one another, by choice. I hoped they would know when too much time had passed and would
connect via phone or text or FB messaging - by choice. I
hoped that despite occasional falling outs, clashes of will, or silent stretches they would stay close to the people who would walk into traffic for them.

I
hoped, after twenty-seven years of
marriage, my husband and I would do the same thing.

Done,
done, done, done, and doing.

Choices will pull at us at this time of
"my turn", and it is daunting to come back as new people to the
ones who have known us forever. But it is liberating too, it is the only choice of many, to be us again.